"A fresh and fragrant grove of oaks and beeches, visited by a hundred nightingales with each
return of spring, stretched along the seashore. The broad highway lies between this grove and the ocean,
the ever-changing ocean. One carriage after another rolls past, but I do not follow them; my gaze rests
mostly on one spot - a Viking's grave, Blackberry and sloe grow between the stones. Here is the true
poetry of nature. How do you think people interpret it? Listen, and I shall tell you what I heard last
evening and during the past night.

"First, two rich landowners came driving along. "What splendid trees!' said one of them.
'Every tree should give at least ten cartloads of firewood,' answered the other, 'and
we're going to have a hard winter. Last year, remember, we got fourteen dollars a load!' And then
they were gone.

" 'What a terrible road!' said another man as he drove past in his carriage. 'It's
all because of those confounded trees,' his companion answered. 'The only way for the air to get
in is from the sea!' And they rolled on.

"The stagecoach also came by, and during this loveliest part of the journey all the passengers
were fast asleep. The driver blew his horn, but he said only to himself, 'I blow well indeed! It
sounds fine right here! But what do those sleepy people inside care about it?' Then the stagecoach
disappeared.

"Now two young lads galloped along on horseback. Here are the fire and spirit of youth, I thought.
They also glanced with a smile at the moss-green hills and the dark grove. 'I should certainly like to
go for a walk in here with Christine, the miller's daughter!' said one of them, and off they
rode.

"The fragrance of flowers was very strong; every breath of wind was still; the ocean seemed almost
a part of the heaven that overhung the deep valley. A coach with six passengers rolled by. Four were
asleep; the fifth was thinking of how his new summer coat would fit him, and the sixth popped his head out
of the window to ask the coachman if there was anything remarkable about the heap of stones beside the
road.

" ' No, ' said the driver. 'That's nothing but a heap of stones; but the trees
over there - they're really worth looking at!'

" ' Tell me about them.'

" ' Yes, they're most remarkable,' said the man. 'In the winter, when the snow is
so deep that nothing can be seen, those trees are signposts to me; I follow them and keep from driving
into the sea. You see, that's why they are so remarkable!' And then he drove on.

"Now a painter came by. His eyes sparkled; he didn't say a word; he only whistled. Each
nightingale sang more loudly and sweetly than the other. 'Stop that noise!' he cried, and then he
carefully examined all the colors and tints in the landscape. 'Blue, purple, dark brown - what a
beautiful painting this would make!' His mind took it all in, just as a mirror reflects a picture, and
meanwhile he whistled a Rossini march.

"The last to come by was a poor girl. She sat down upon the Viking's grave to rest, and laid
down her bundle. Her pale, lovely face turned toward the grove, and she listened; her eyes brightened as
she raised them over the ocean toward heaven. Her hands were clasped, and I believe she said the
Lord's Prayer. She herself did not fully understand the feeling that moment and the scene around her
will in her memory be invested with colors more beautiful and richer than the artist's accurate
colors. My rays followed her until the dawn kissed her brow."